


Expectations

by Ladycat



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: M/M, Schmoop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-11
Updated: 2014-02-11
Packaged: 2018-01-12 00:42:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1179876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ladycat/pseuds/Ladycat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What he doesn't expect is the way John's hand brushes against his as they walk, the crease of his knuckles rough and startling against palm, wry strands of hair tickling the back of his hand, the twist of his own fingers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Expectations

Of all the things Rodney expects when John says yes with the shy tilt of his head, shoulders bunching and then lowering like a weights been lifted, obvious without the verbalization -- good thing, since Rodney knows that's too much to ask -- it isn't this. He expects the banter that turns to arguments that somehow becomes banter again, both of them caught up in competitive laughter before they realize they aren't angry anymore. Or maybe that they are and it doesn't matter, it's not important because this, John sidling like a nervous horse, edging closer, unsure of his welcome without the plastic confidence Rodney never knew was so brittle carefully pried off -- this _is_ important. He expects the games and the adventure, easy the way nothing in Rodney's life has been easy, not even numbers or science, theorems that wrote themselves in his head, because there's always been a struggle to make others understand, to _see_ what's sun-blinding to Rodney. John sees and understands and winds him up like he's a mechanical wonder, laughing while Rodney splutters his way to understanding.

He expects the sex to steal his breath and tighten his body, digging deep inside his belly until it touches something Rodney's never noticed before, breathes on the faded orange embers of it until it grows and warms until it's too much for Rodney to hold any longer and he thinks he'll burst with the pressure of it.

He definitely expects that.

What he doesn't expect is the way John's hand brushes against his as they walk, the crease of his knuckles rough and startling against palm, wry strands of hair tickling the back of his hand, the twist of his own fingers. He doesn't expect the touch that flares warm against shoulder, or elbow, belly, or the small of his back. He doesn't expect the way John's eyes follow him, masked in hazel and sardonic amusement that Rodney's slowly conditioned to translate into the glide of long fingers over the inside of his thigh, the steady pressure of skin that doesn't take, just accepts, resting on his belly, his side, dead center on his back, while phantom John wraps around the rest of him.

He doesn't expect how every night John says, "Rodney," long suffering and annoyed because he doesn't remember how to beg without being insincere, and he's never that, not with Rodney. Not here, in their bed where Rodney is granted the use of his laptop, his attention somewhere far away, so long as his body is given over to John.

He doesn't expect the way John twists and burrows around him, living skin that tries to meld with his own, legs tangled, hands busy and familiar over a body learned through persistent practice, fast even though it isn't. John pets him and snuggles against him, a Rodney-body-pillow that can't be as comfortable as John makes him seem like. John kisses and licks him, tasting and retasting like each bit of skin going to change in five minutes, an hour, a week or a month. John nuzzles and cups, tracing the lines of muscle Rodney's only beginning to be aware of, the rediscovery of the painted edges of skin and bone, visible only through John's touch, his fingers and mouth, his wicked tongue and awful, horrible, surprisingly vulnerable laugh.

He doesn't expect John to nuzzle, to tuck his head into the crease of Rodney's thigh, probably suffocating on the skin of his stomach without a complaint. To burrow, bristly and brash, until his nose is squashed against the long muscle of Rodney's neck, like no acupuncture Rodney's ever heard of, but effective, _so_ effective.

Rodney has no defense to John when he's like this, playful and needy because the idea of Rodney a scant three inches away is three inches too far.

He doesn't expect John to never sleep with a pillow, or at least, not the downy, cloth-covered ones he orders extra just in case.

It's horribly unexpected and Rodney hates unexpected.

"Hm?" John hums, stubbled chin rubbing lines of red across Rodney's collarbone, the trail of stinging warmth sinking down through chest and belly to a cock that shouldn't be so interested but is, so is. "What's that?"

"Uh," Rodney says, "nothing."

But he shuts off his laptop, not unexpected at all, and slides down until John can arrange him as he likes, skin pressed so close to skin that Rodney doesn't know where he ends, where John begins, and never wants to find out.


End file.
